I hope the universe blesses you with a moment of peace this week. You’re doing the right thing, and you’re going to be okay.
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[ID: There is nothing absolute / Everything changes, everything / moves, everything re- / volves - everything / flies and goes away.]
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The only regret in my life is that I said a "sorry" while they deserved a "fuck off".
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“Love isn’t soft, like those poets say. Love has teeth which bite and the wounds never close.”
Stephen King
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“You do not write your life with words...You write it with actions. What you think is not important. It is only important what you do.”
― Patrick Ness
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What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three and two and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.
I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see.
sandra cisneros; eleven
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To live like this is to die little by little.
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